Pieces of the Puzzle

My mom gets all starry eyed, weak-kneed, gooey-hearted, light-headed when she sights any sort of celebrity. They could be side-actors, extras or furniture. As long as they were featured in television, they have her full attention. Just like crows detect dead rat, she can sense a film-star 3 miles away.

One such time we were going to Banglore on Jet Airways. She spotted Ramesh, a south Indian movie actor. She couldn’t sit in peace. She was so thrilled to be breathing the same air-conditioned air as he. Frankly, I had no clue who he was when she excitedly pointed out the dude. He looked like my classmate’s older brother actually. Gimme a Kamal or an Amitabh, I might sit up and take notice. No, on second thoughts, my mom might have fainted in that case. Back to Ramesh- Finally she could take it no more, she walked up to him and requested his co-passenger to sit next to my dad. She plopped herself giddily next to this guy much to our mortification and got his autograph in the back of her ‘bindi’ packet. Then for the large part of the journey she spoke to him, inquired about his kids, his wife and had the time of her life. Her day was made.

We used to be neighbors to this producer (not by design), so my mom usually had her fill of crazy actors frequenting his house. Mostly unheard-of characters. One day, she spotted Mohan Gokhale of ‘Mr.Yogi’ fame shooting for a tele-serial. Mr.Yogi was just taking a break after a particular shot, when my mom hysterically ran out of the house, accosted him and gushed about how much she loved watching Mr. Yogi. Even I had enjoyed watching him play the 'Amrika-return chap' desperately looking for a bride. But I doubt if I would have freaked out like that.

My mom forced him to come home for coffee. He was so taken by her gesture that he immediately accepted the invite. He had apparently been around for a week and no one recognized him in Madras. I could almost see him brimming with joy. He came home, chatted with us, drank coffee while my mom played the insane fan part very well. She couldn’t drink without shaking her cup, called me her younger sister, tried to pull out dialogues from his serial and playfully chided "Don’t call me aunty, Yogi!". Whatever ma, you made him beam so much, I thought he would ask the Producer to give you a part as his heroine.

Mr. Yogi was a very friendly and charming guy. The day we heard of his demise, we were deeply saddened. Every time I see his autograph in our house, I cant help but pray for his soul.

I am at work on a Sunday morning. That’ll explain my plight. To narrate certain recent incidents, I'll be as cryptic as possible so as to not get into trouble. If this super-coded language reaches wrong hands and gets deciphered, I hope you'll remember me as a martyr and build a marble blog in my memory.

Uparwali (sternly): Alpha, I think the method you used to find the ‘xxx rates’ is not correct.

Me (meekly): I feel that’s how you should calculate the xxx rates. But I get your point too, I will reconsider and change them. (akhir boss kaun hai)

Uparwali (hitting the roof): What?!! Don’t you have conviction for anything you do? If you use a certain method, aren’t you supposed to explain it well and talk me into accepting your method. How will you make progress at this rate? And you have been working here for 3 and a half years, you should be confident by now!!

Same Uparwali (sternly): Alpha, I think the method you used to draw these ‘yyy sections’ is not right.

Me (with newfound confidence): Let me explain why I think it is right. When one is going westbound on this interchange….. (hyperventilated explaining with graphs and sketches)…….. Hence I feel my method should be used and the good news is, I have gone ahead and done all the sheets this way. YES! I am that convinced! (waiting for a standing ovation)

Ups (hitting the roof and making a hole in it): Aren’t we making a mountain out of a mole-hill here? You know or I know? 3 and a half years of working here doesn’t give you the audacity to talk to seniors like that.

VR, the HR lady from Bangalore- Please keep my cubicle ready.

I am feeling very Patrixy (full of myself)..esp after he put up that nice post on Why do I Blog. I feel its time to make a big deal about this myself.

I spend my free time (most of the time) googling stuff that catch my fancy. Mostly long lost friends and enemies. I chanced upon this high-school senior’s blog. First reaction- What the heck, he updates this site everyday. This dude has too much time in his hands. To his credit, he doesn’t even write huge posts like me- mostly cut & paste stuff from news sites. I checked out his pictures (he seemed to be eating and doing well). Then I got bored quickly.

After a few months, I went back and checked some his links. Took me straight to Sid’s blog. Now Sid is a smart guy who writes really well. For a guy, he has got a sensitive side which I adored. Smooth and dreamy. I even read his 100 things. I was hooked till Tan & work took over (Just because you see a hyperlinked Tan, its doesn’t mean that this is Sid’s blog). Wishing them all the very best, I went to Gorgeous. With a name like that, I was bound to be intrigued. G kept me entertained for the longest time. I checked all her archives, spent much of my productive time doing that. She writes with a soul and an attitude. You could almost feel her yelling at you. You grew to like Nobody and hate her brother’s wife (God Bless Her). I miss that Gorgeous now. My only hope is that she is churning out that novel.

After four months of reading and jumping from link to link, I decided to take a shot at it. I had no clue where and how to begin. I knew I wanted to write too. I wanted to spare my poor friends who were getting inflicted with my long emails. It got to a point where people went, "Oh my god! Do I have to read this now? This is too long. I hope Alpha doesn’t go anywhere. She will surely send us that dreaded travelogue."

I could write stuff and store them in my hard-drive in a folder called Alpha’s Gibberish. But I wanted some feedback too. Blogging seemed to be a great medium to unleash that verbal diarrhea. Because I chose to be anonymous, no one would even feel compelled to read my blog. (Owing to the random crap I write, I’m better off being anonymous). Only people who like to read this will do so.

So far, so good. Its quite addictive and I am working on that part. But I love doing this. I have written to my heart’s content, came across like-minded people, made great friends, read awesome stuff, won an award, got a page dedicated to my blog, got good comments to all my posts.

All this might fade away one day. I might get bored of posting. You might get bored of reading. But I will enjoy it while it lasts.

Finally, the Vote of Thanks. I was supposed to do this when I got the Most Humorous Indiblog Award. But since I didn’t get that fancy plaque, I was quite upset and peeved about the whole affair that I started drinking excessively and forgot all about it. But hey, Thanks for voting! Here’s the long pending list-

Fillerman who always thought I had potential in the writing arena. Fillu, you made me delusional.

People who stuck by me from the very beginning-  Pleo, AmitL, Wandy, Heretic (He's dead for a while, he better be working on a novel too), Jill, Ranjan, Gorgy, Nobody. Were my threats that bad?

People who came later and are still around- You guys know who you are and that you rock.

People who aren’t bloggers & have dared to comment- Vinod, VG, Maya, Veena, Chinmay, Vamsi, Prasad, memory loss. You are so altruistic.

Special mention to my darling Parmanu, who I thought was a cyber-stalker/psycho to have started a blog in my name. After exchanging many mails, I still think he is eccentric. He has decided to stop updating 1/alpha and concentrate on wooing me with his epic mails. It was working fine till I realized that he was trying hard to get his wife jealous. That, apparently is not working.

A simple thanks is not enough for Pi for putting up with this and maybe a whole lot more. I'll maybe buy him another football jersey. Or cook Payasam. Just the jersey would be fine.

THANKS TO YOU ALL! Like I have maintained, Your sense of humor makes me want to write more.

There! I was in a senti mood. What if I die tomorrow and leave this job unfinished. This year I am aiming to win the Most Senti Indiblog.

If you don’t see me around for a while (like a couple of days), its not because I died.. but coz I might be busy. Aiyoo! why are my posts this long??! I don't even have the patience to go back and proof read them.

Past few weekends, we were invited by three different people for lunch/dinner. 

Invite 1: From a friend whose parents were visiting from India.

Invite 2: From a friend who had a baby recently.

Invite 3: From my cousin who lives here with his family.

Grudgingly, we accept out of social obligation. We were later to find, food was the positive but not the only common aspect.

House 1: Namaskars in order, we proceed with comparison between Chicago and Chennai. Hot and Cold. Fun and Boring. Costly and Cheap. Fast and Slow. Conversations flow from aunty to uncle on totally different topics. I am amazed at my skills in keeping both of them engaged. Suddenly uncle drops the bomb. ‘Daughter, let Alpha and Pi watch your Master's defense & graduation tape. Put it on na!’

"Uncle! You DID NOT record her Defense!??" I ask unbelievingly hopeful. "Oh yes ma! I flew all the way to Nebraska to watch this. Also took permission from her professor to record the whole thing. My girl was so good that ....blah blah blah". Gulp! Do we really have to sit through this. There was no escaping. So we spend another dull hour staring at the TV while my friend confidently tackles her professors. Uncle was ebbing with enthusiasm and kept showering praises on his dear daughter who was slowly becoming my foe. By the end of it (after dispersed aahs and wows), I had more knowledge of her thesis and could have defended it, if need be. What was my own Thesis topic again?

House 2: 'Ooohh! Coootchie Cootchie! So cute! She looks like you! No actually, she looks like your hubby. Can I still call her cute, in that case?' (In reality, I can’t freaking tell who babies resemble) But I play along for a while. 'The eyes are definitely yours, but the ear lobes….' The dad and mom are obviously smitten by the little kitten. The parent’s fond eyes, their sudden reaction to every little noise…I’m in a different world. I was enjoying this whole display of alien emotions till the dad said he had something very cute to show me. I could almost feel my head reeling when he put in a video cassette. I cant tell you how long this ordeal went on, but I know my soul left my body to have a cold shower. I could see the real baby in front of my eyes and in the reel baby on BIG screen. It was doing the same thing.. lying down! The dad had recorded 2 hours of the baby’s lying down scene! The dad gleefully points out, "Look look, the baby stirred!!!" choochweet!  Another allergic substance added to my list- Babies.

House 3: Older cousin. Almost uncle types. Hug and show immense pleasure on meeting them. ‘Oh My God! How tall Nephew has grown!' I almost feel like those elders I bitched about when I was young and growing. We talk about their redone basement, snow blower, kid's education system, on Pi’s never ending Phd. Interesting conversation to say the least. I can see nothing wrong happening here till the proud father gets all misty eyed,’ You must listen to my son playing the violin.'  Am I hearing this right? This can't be happening to me! God Help me! I need some glucose to get through this one. I am now helplessly waiting for the cassette to appear from nowhere. But this gets even better. "Sonny, go get your instrument and play that Vivaldi piece for Alpha aunty and Pi uncle.’ A 16 year old calling me aunty, I could still take.. but a violin recital when I am dying of hunger?! I am not too sure! Though I have very little knowledge of music in general, I was able to appreciate most of it…till it went on for a while that I was scared we may not get food if I don’t keep encouraging him. "More more! Er..Cuz, is there a remote possibility that Nephew could be hungry and tired?"

I have resolved to record the expression on our guests' faces while we showcase our future kid’s talent- of eating. The kid eats in the video for 3 hours while the guests wait to be served dinner. If that doesnt kill them, even my food won't.

As a teenager, I used to dread New Years Eve. Not because it was the beginning of a new uncertain year that would bring false hopes and shattered dreams. No, I wasn’t that deep. It was time for my dad’s office party! After a lot of whining and protesting, me and my brother would be whisked away to the get-together. On the way even our driver could note the aura in the car, ‘Saab will always make sure the rest of the world thinks this is a close knit family’.

At the party, fat uncles and even fatter aunties would accost us with the same observation every year, ‘Look how tall they have grown!’ Using hand gestures to indicate our growth graph. Like we were some Ashoka trees they planted in their garden. My mom would beam proudly. Year after year she had the same dialogue. ‘I feel like a valley standing between these kids. Nobody refers to them as tall, they think I am short. hehe!’

Obviously there was no one of my age group. Their fathers had been kind enough to let them spend New years eve with their friends. So I had to suffice staring at the food or bitching about the whole deal to my brother. Till they start with the games, then I positively feel like choking on some of the decoration. The organizers (a bunch of bored people) would debate on which category to place me in spite of my objections to even participate. Kids or Ladies? I guess the kids were too tiny. So there, I was running with the women-folk clenching a spoon between my teeth with a lemon on it. I won! That was exhilaratingly awkward.

‘Passing the Parcel’ took the cake. Thanks to my dad's desire to hog the limelight, we were spared. He would hold on to the parcel long enough till the music stopped. He'd have bribed the organizer before hand. So whichever folded piece of paper he picked up, he ended up having to do a Bhrathanatyam dance. The history behind this is, my dad loved the audience reaction to his enthusiastic performance which had been practiced to perfection at home. More than that, he loved embarrassing us. I must admit, his dance steps and the serious expressions on his countenance sure made everyone laugh. Year after year, from the time I can remember. Luckily we moved cities often and hence rest of the folks didn’t have to watch this rendition again.

When things were just reaching the brim, when I could take it no more, my eyes roved and lingered on this handsome creature. Oh well, I guess this night might not be that boring after all. I make my way and strike a conversation with Abhijit. A management trainee from BITS, Pilani. Lot of laughing and blushing followed. I was enjoying this party.

3…2…1…..YAY!!!!!!!!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

Next year around, I was more than willing to join my dad and mom for New years eve. Got dressed up without a fuss. Extra make-up. Yelled at my brother for taking so much time. This time I will have to remember to get hold of Abi’s phone number.

Fat men and fatter women accost us. "Oooohh, How tall…." My eyes wander off. Searching high and low. No trace. I can almost feel the other young men trying to avoid me like plague. Confused, I finally make small-talk with a bakra. Ask him if he knew Abhijit and why he wasn’t around. He looks distraught.

‘Poor Abhijit, your father transferred him off to Assam. Er.. If you don’t mind, I need to excuse myself.’

The same international school. Second grade. A week before Valentine’s Day, we were instructed to make cardboard mail boxes and leave it in the back of the classroom. During the week, everyone prepared Valentine cards and posted them to people we loved in our class. We were to open the boxes only on Feb 14th.

I drew four little hearts on the corners and one big heart on the center. Then I wrote a little poem inside.

There is no age-limit for Poetic license. I wrote the very same poetry in every card altering the location and color of the hearts. Then I posted them in a few girl’s mail boxes. I was still shy about the boys. I hadn’t thought about marrying anyone yet. Somehow Valentine’s day and the word ‘love’ seemed to have more significance in my mind than it actually was.

I was paying attention to my box, as to who lingers around…just like I do to my comment boxes. I noticed Peter pushing a card into the slot of a box named ‘Alpha’s Mail’. I was quite flustered. He loves me! What do I do?

I thought about the consequences and made up my mind. I made a card for him. This was more special. It had better looking hearts, around twenty, colored to perfection and the poem was copied from a book my dad owned. It didn’t mater if I had no clue what those words meant. I had to make my impression.

Valentines day. We opened our cards. My heart did a somersault when I read Peter’s. I am withholding the content due to privacy concerns. Truth being told, its been a while and I forgot what was in it. But I do remember feeling all mushy.

When we were allowed to take all the cards home, I wasn’t sure how my parents would react to Peter being their son-in-law. Maybe I was sure how they'd react. I held Peter’s card in my hand, looking at it longingly till I reached home. I opened and closed it a million times till I had memorized every little crayon stroke. Just before I rang the door bell, I trashed it in a dust-bin outside my house along with my heart.

I don’t know if Peter had a crush on me or if he intended to marry me. I didn’t hang around to find out. I had to change schools soon. But going by the class photo, he sure was one hottie.

If anyone comes across a white hunk named Peter, please do ask him if he still has my red Valentine card.

Patrix has done such a good job of describing our meet in Chicago, that I have very little to add. Saying thus, I shall go on for two pages.

The minute Yogi set his foot in my house, he attacked the existence of the poor unsuspecting ‘throw’ on my couch. All I can say is- Guys have no class whatsoever. Pi joined hands and they bitched about the concept of a ‘throw’ after which the ‘throw’ and Yogu became inseparable. If everything in the house needs to have a purpose, somehow you guys are not helping your case.

There was tight security and terror alert all over the country. Filler man knows (oh well, that’s a different story all together). Yogu and me hoped we wouldn’t get arrested in the airport carrying a banner that said "TINDA FROM BHATINDA" complete with little green tindas painted on the border. We picked up our Chhota P(atrix) and went straight to the Indian part of Chicago for lunch. It was a sign from above, a calling from below- in the lunch buffet, there was tinda sabzi! Frankly, I have never seen tinda in any lunch buffet in my life. Next we saw a heap of tindas in a grocery store. It was almost like we we were hallucinating. Yogu felt like buying some as a souvenir.

 Tinda                        Throw

Yogz started digging for praises immediately, ‘Patrixu, what do you think of me re? Do I fit your expectations? Am I sexy enough for you? What do you think of my opinion of the ‘throw’?’

Let me add here that Yogu was not born gay nor did he ever intend to. He always thought Starfest would rock his boat. He got converted after setting his eyes on Patrix. Yogu was taken by Pat’s dressing sense, his talent of touching his nose with his lower lip and his PJs (pajama with holes). Might as well admit, so was I Patrix.

Time to pick up Star. Each of us had practiced a routine that would be performed to perfection. As we greet Star, Pi would dig his nose. I would keep winking, Patrix would fall on Star every time and Yogu would be himself. This, we thought would really scare her out of her wits. By the time we got the placard (which is censored) out of the trunk, Star came beaming and bouncing towards us that threw us all off guard.

She had come prepared to seduce. Her sweater was shedding in clumps. There was black wool everywhere she went. In Yogu’s car, my house, on a random guy’s back. We were all reeling in anticipation for the whole sweater to finally come down to threads. Every night, she wrote something secretive in a diary which she kept hidden under my couch. You will always be a blonde, Star! *evil laff* On a side note, Canadians look down upon not only Americans but also Desis. We need to stop Hindi movie supply to these damn Canadians.

Just in case anyone was missing Lord of the Rings, Yogu and Pi made sure to keep us in the loop with their enacting various characters. Yogi was Gollum every single time with ‘his precious’ being Pi’s hair.

Patrix amazed everyone with his dire need to crack poor jokes (PJ) and stretching those jokes beyond repair. He said he was just getting started when we dropped him off at the airport. We were relieved or what!

Star on the other hand was very quite. If she said anything it was to show us how Americans flaunt their flags everywhere. Er Star, is there anything we should do about it? Well she also mentioned (while batting eyelashes) that she had a crush on Patrix, Yogu and Pi and didn’t know where to go from there. What about me, Star?

Yogu tried to win over Star and Patrix at the same time. He even brought coconut oil for lubrication. After pouring over the Kamasutra that was lying in my house (I have no clue how it got here), he wished he had elephant’s sweat instead.

Things I am thankful about. None of you turned out to be a serial killer. Yogi didn’t steal my ‘throw’. With your limited guessing skills, I am glad at least you all thought I was a spider when I was enacting a lizard.

Will have to meet you all again. Bachke jaoge kahan?

The initial years of my growing up were spent in a school outside India that introduced me to Christmas, Halloween, St. Patrick’s Day and Valentines Day. These holidays were much more fun than a bunch of Indians congregating for Diwali, singing songs. The lack of fireworks made Diwali boring as a kid. Christmas was something I looked forward to.

‘Amma, can we have a Christmas tree at least this year? Please please. Kim told me that’s why I don’t get gifts from Santa (almost in tears)’

In the most practical tone, my mom states certain facts that made a huge impact on my little mind,’ Alpha, Christmas is for people who eat meat. So if we keep a tree, will you eat Krishna’s cow? And Santa doesn’t exist. He is your classmate Jack’s dad who dresses up like that and fools all the other kids. Why do you need gifts from Santa when you get what you want all the time?’

Oh well, she did make a point. Was I the only kid who wasn’t getting fooled by Jack’s dad? I surely didn’t want to eat a cow but I still didn’t see why I couldn’t sulk. So I sulked.

My school decided to organize a party with Christmas carols, food, candy and of course Santa Claus. And Santa was to give every kid a gift! I was so happy!

What I didn’t know was the school was sneaky enough to send a letter to every parent to have them send a gift to the school. This would be presented to their kids by Santa himself.

Instead of taking the pains to do this discretely, my mom sent the gift through me to give it to my teacher. It was a silly pencil box which she bought when I was there in the shop. She even let me in this Santa deal at school. What?! I felt quite cheated. This whole Christmas thing was such a scam! Thank god for my mom, or I would have felt like a moron in the end and Santa would have had his last laugh.

The D-day arrived. The Big bearded red guy made a dramatic entrance to the background of Jingle Bells. Kids were apprehensive and excited about getting great gifts from their hero. I was bored and peeved about receiving a pencil-box from Jack’s dad.

"Next is Alpha!"

I walked up the stage and stopped near Santa.

"Ok sweety", said Santa’s elf, "Kiss Santa to get your gift."

"Yuck. Can I just take that pencil-box and go?"

Santa was quite flustered, "Ho Ho Ho! Been a bad kid, haven’t you?"

"So has Jack!" I snatched the wrapped gift and came running back to my shocked embarrassed parents. Every other person out there tried to get a nice look at our family. Their humiliation didn’t end there.

After the whole gift ceremony was over, Santa had extra presents for kids whose parents had forgotten to send any. He being the cool guy, asked those deprived loser kids to come one by one. I almost wished I was one of them. I thought about this for a second. Then I ran to the stage much to my parents chagrin and Santa’s amusement.

It was well worth it. This time I got a cool Lego set, much better than the pencil-box.

Merry Christmas you all! Oye Santa, I believe in you now. Just hurry down the chimney tonight!

I play with Pi’s hair and ask him nicely, "So Sweety, tell me 20 things you like about me".

Pi is like any other guy. He hates being trapped like this and tries to wriggle out in the most ungainly way, "First you tell me what you like about me".

I am like any other girl. I hate finding things not going my way with an unnecessary shift in limelight. But I still would like to hear those 20 things about me. So I play along, "20 things about you uh? Ok fine. You are sincere, intelligent- kinda, patient- sometimes, hmm… maybe caring, (think for a while) that’s it! Err…I cant get any more. Now your turn."

Pi smirks, "Let me make it easier for you. Gimme 20 things you don’t like about me".

Piece of cake! I rattle out 20 effortlessly. I had material for 20 more, if warranted. But then, I get the message and walk away grumpily. Next time I'll ask for 5.